


Cramped

by Disasteriffic_Kaz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disasteriffic_Kaz/pseuds/Disasteriffic_Kaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam in a box. Trapped and injured, Sam can only hope Dean will find him in time. Two Shot. Set post 1x04 "Phantom Traveler" Hurt!Sam Comfort/awesome!Dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This one is for Leahelisabeth and her love of 'Sam in a box'. It's been a while since I gave her this and really…Do we ever get tired of reading this particular scenario? LOL
> 
> Beta'd by the always awesome JaniceC678 :D– Friend and Muse's co-conspirator.
> 
> **Follow me on Facebook as "DisasterifficKaz" for frequent fic updates or just to chat!
> 
> ~Reviews are Love~

**_-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-_ **

Sam woke in a fog. He felt like he was still asleep…still dreaming and tried to remember where he was; what he was doing. Where was Dean? There was a job…a motel room painted a yellow just a little too bright. Dean had called it 'sunny side puke' and made him laugh. There had been a trip to the library researching…Sam frowned…was it a spirit? He thought it was and had a vague memory of finding a picture of someone…a woman? Yes, it had been a woman…killed by her lover and...and something about her being buried alive and then…then Dean had called…

Sam's eyes snapped open. He blinked through his blurry vision and saw nothing, only darkness. He opened his mouth to call for his brother and found a musty cloth of some sort stuffed into it. Sam tried to bring his hands up to pull it free and the first thread of panic wove through him. His arms were bound fast. He felt ropes around his arms, his shoulders, his chest and waist. He tried to move his legs and found them bound tightly as well with what felt like coils of rope wound all the way from ankles to hips. The sound of his frantic breathing filled whatever space he was in. He lifted his head no more than an inch and it thumped into something above him. He realized his shoulders were wedged on either side against a hard surface. Sam kicked with his feet and couldn't straighten his legs. They were bent awkwardly while bound so his knees pressed against the wall of his prison and his feet were bent back to make room for his long frame. The more he wriggled to try and free himself, the more a coil of the damned rope around his throat drew tighter, digging in to the flesh of his neck, and he could feel it starting to restrict his breathing and he could not help the wave of panic that washed over him.

He shouted through the gag for his brother in the grip of true fear. Sam knew where he was. He was buried alive.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-** _

Dean grabbed the bags off the passenger seat of the Impala and climbed out, knocking the door shut with his hip and went for the motel room. He rolled his eyes while he fumbled the room key out because that damn yellow paint job was going to blind him eventually. He sniffed at the burgers inside the bag and sighed happily.

Dean opened the door and kicked it out of the way, determined to drag his little brother away from the laptop long enough to eat something for a change. "Hey, Sammy! Time for…Sam?" The room was empty. He frowned and set the bags down on the table next to the still-open laptop and went to the bathroom, but it was empty as well. "What the hell?" He swallowed back the initial burst of fear and narrowed his eyes, looking at the room with a lifetime of hunter's experience for anything out of place. Dean went from one area to the next, the beds, tables, eyes scanning the floor and the tatty carpet for signs of blood or prints from shoes that didn't belong, but nothing seemed out of place. He went to the door and studied the lock, but, like the room, it was untouched.

"Sam, where the hell are you?" Dean couldn't explain why, but a terrible sort of dread fell into his stomach as he went back to stand in the middle of the room and look around again. His eyes roamed the room again and this time landed on the room phone. The handset wasn't in the cradle properly; it lay tilted at an odd angle, like whoever had put it back hadn't cared whether or not they actually hung it up. Dean went to it and picked it up, listening. There was nothing to hear but dead air over the line.

"I don't like this." Dean glared down at the phone. "I really don't like this." He hung up the phone properly and headed for the door. If getting a call had been the last thing Sam did before leaving the room for whatever reason, he was going to find out where it came from because Sam's cell phone was sitting on the table beside his laptop, forgotten, a fact which in and of itself was enough to set off alarm bells in Dean's head.

Dean jogged down the side of the motel to the office. The manager was in the process of locking the door for the night and Dean banged into it, shoving it open against his protests. "No. You're not closed for the night. Not yet." He glared until the much shorter man sighed and threw his arms up.

"Fine. What's so damn important at midnight?" The manager went back to his desk and raised a brow at Dean.

"A call came in to our room in the last hour. I need to know where from," Dean told him and rapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. "Room 102."

"A call? That's it?" The manager groaned and waved a hand. "Fine, just…don't steal anything for a minute."

Dean glared at his back as he went through a side door. He looked over the counter, grabbed the pen from the log-in book and pocketed it. "Tell me not to steal anything. Jackass," Dean grumbled. In his mind, he went back and forth between anger at his little brother and his vanishing act and fear that something horrible had happened in the hour he was gone…that Sam was already lying dead somewhere because Dean had left him alone and unprotected. He shook his head at himself. Sam wasn't a kid anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't helpless, or so he kept insisting to Dean every chance he got. Dean smiled at that because, damn, he'd missed Sam's obstinate streak, irritating as it was. Maybe he wouldn't feel so warm and fuzzy about it once they had Dad back, and they would, but in the meantime Sam was all he had to hold on to and he'd take him, bitch-faces and all.

"Here. Now get the hell out so I can get some damn sleep," the manager said as he came back and handed a piece of paper to Dean, waving him toward the door.

Dean went without argument and looked at the number. He didn't recognize it and took out his cell phone as he went back to the room. He dialed the number and scowled worriedly as he was immediately told the number he was calling had been disconnected. "What the hell?" He slammed back into the motel room and went to the table, sitting with the laptop and booted it up to search for who the damn number belonged to. He struggled to hold the fear back because he knew his brother; Sam wouldn't have left like this without his phone, without putting away the laptop, without leaving a damn note! He just wouldn't.

"That's…not possible," Dean breathed as he stared at the screen and the results of his search. The number had once belonged to Lara Newman…the dead woman whose ghost they were hunting. She had died twenty years ago, and the number that had called Sam belonged to her house. "Son of a bitch." He leaned back in the chair with a thump. The house was a historic site now and several people over the last few months had been accosted by a woman's spirit while touring the place, but what had caught Sam's attention were the five people who had gone missing, all of whom the last time they had been seen by anyone was in or near that house. Lara had quickly become the prime suspect as she was rumored to have been murdered by her lover and her body hidden somewhere in the house or on the grounds. Dean leaned forward again and brought up Sam's browsing history. Sam had been researching where she might be buried when Dean had left on a food run. He scrolled through the pages his brother had last been on and found the last thing he'd looked at. Dean skimmed down through the article, the account of one of the maids who had lived in the house with Lara and it made his blood run cold.

According to the account, the maid had heard her mistress' voice in the house for several days after she vanished but had never found her, though she had searched high and low. She had finally come to the belief that her mistress had been buried alive somewhere in the house. Lara's lover had apparently been a sadistic bastard and taunted the staff with hints as to what he'd done with her.

"Oh, God, Sammy." Dean lurched up out of the chair with the realization that, somehow, the bitch of a spirit had called and lured his brother to the house alone. He swept his brother's cell from the table and into his pocket and ran for the car.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-** _

The darkness was making him sick along with the fetid air that smelled of dead things and didn't move, though Sam was thankful he could, at least, breathe. His head swam where it rested on the rough wood surface under him. He'd realized that the right side of his head felt sticky and wet, and, if he concentrated, he could just feel something trickling through his hair. It had to be blood. A blow to the head hard enough to knock him out would explain why he couldn't remember anything after speaking with his brother on the phone.

Dean had called and he had sounded…off. He hadn't said much other than he was at Lara's house and needed Sam's help. Sam vaguely remembered hotwiring one of the cars in the motel parking lot and then…he frowned, squeezing his eyes shut as pain ratcheted through his skull again. He remembered nothing after that.

Sam carefully turned his head, trying to shift the gag enough that he could spit the fabric out of his mouth. It was making breathing difficult with the rope uncomfortably tight around his throat from his earlier panic in trying to free himself. It had taken everything he had to fight back the blinding fear and calm himself down, but he'd quickly learned he had to lay still or risk being strangled. In a very dark corner of his mind, he registered the fact that, should it reach a point where hope of rescue was gone and he was faced with a slow death through either suffocation or dehydration depending on whether his tiny prison was airtight or not, he could actually end the suffering quickly just by struggling a bit more. It was an oddly comforting thought. His legs had cramped horribly for a while and twitched, making him desperate to move. His arms had done the same, twisted as they were behind him and bound across his back. He knew the ropes were cutting off his circulation, but there was little he could do about it. That damned rope around his neck stopped him.

He wondered where Dean was, how much trouble he was in that he hadn't been able to speak more on the phone. For that alone, Sam wanted to try and free himself again, but his limbs were deadening and, even if he did somehow manage to free an arm before he choked himself out, he'd never be able to move it in time to unravel his neck and save himself. Sam felt helpless and a little worthless. What possible good could he be to Dean out here on the road when he couldn't save himself, let alone his brother.

Sam stilled his head as the temperature began to drop. A cold wind blew through his tight prison and froze him, making him shiver and sending fresh stabs of pain through his limbs. He picked his head up, careful not to move too much and tighten his garrote and blinked in surprise as a soft, blue glow began to brighten before him. He reared back in surprise when a woman's face appeared in front of him. The movement cost him, the rope on his neck tightening, and he coughed around the gag, dropping his head until it eased slightly so he could breathe again.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was soft. Her face was a study in sadness that Sam could see even though she was transparent, an after-image of her former self. "I tried to save you. I always try to save them."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise and he fought to get the gag out of his mouth again.

"He took you." She - and Sam was sure this was Lara - put shimmering, freezing fingers to the side of his face. The chill spread over his skin making him moan as his body shook. He wanted to tell her to stop, but realized she was pulling at the gag, and a moment later, it slipped down his face and over his chin.

Sam spit out the rag, coughing and swallowing, trying to get some moisture back in his mouth. "Lara," he managed at last in a ragged whisper.

"He's killed you."

"No. No! I'm still alive!" Sam coughed again and stared at her eyes. "Please. Let me loose. My brother…he's here somewhere." He licked dry lips and pleaded. "Lara, please. Let me save him."

"He is not here," Lara said sadly and touched her cold fingers to his cheek, brushing the backs of her knuckles there like she was offering comfort. "You did not speak to him."

"Yes, I did. I…" Sam broke off and it all suddenly made sense. The way Dean had sounded and his inability to give Sam any detail before the line had gone dead. He let his head rest on the floor and groaned softly. "I'm an idiot." He let his eyes roam around his prison in her light and jerked hard within his restraints as he finally saw it for what it was - a coffin. "Lara…" Sam gasped and met her cold eyes again. "Where…where am I?"

"Not alone," she whispered and gave him her sad smile again as she gently pushed his long hair out of his eyes. "With me…with the others."

Panic threatened to steal his breath again, but he made himself hold onto it. "Lara…my brother. Tell him. Please?"

"He is not here." She frowned and started to fade.

"No! Please!" Sam jerked in the ropes, choking himself again as her light dwindled. "Lara! I nee…" He broke off coughing and gagging as his frantic movements tightened the rope at his throat, and he forced himself to settle, canting his head back as far as he could to find the room to breathe past it and wished he could feel his hands and his feet. "Dean," He breathed in a bare whisper and closed his eyes as the last of her light fled.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-** _

Dean screeched to a stop outside the landmark house. He was out of the Impala like a shot and to the trunk. He grabbed his sawed-off loaded with rock salt and stuffed a can of salt and a bottle of lighter fluid in his pockets along with extra shells and his EMF meter. He took a hand-axe as well and slid it through his belt, figuring he'd have to knock some walls down to find his brother. He slapped the trunk closed and looked up at the sprawling, portico-fronted house.

"Alright, you bitch. Let's dance," Dean growled and jumped up the steps of the porch. He kicked in the wide front door and took out his flashlight. "SAM!" Dean stopped and listened but heard nothing. He swept his light through the foyer, up the curved stair to the next floor, and then in the halls on either side, all the while fighting the sheer panic that he was too late, that he'd pulled his little brother out of that fire at Stanford only to have him die here, alone and no doubt terrified.

"Come on, Sam." Dean went left, striding down the hall. He stepped into the first room and shone his light over a pleasantly decorated parlor. "Sam?" He stomped on the floor and banged on a couple walls and moved on to the next room. "Sam!" He searched the east wing of the first floor, stomping, banging and yelling, and then jogged back to the foyer to start on the west. The EMF in his pocket started to whine, and Dean skidded to a stop in the entryway, staring with a cold rage at the ghost of the woman across from him.

"What'd you do to my brother? Where is he? SAM!" Dean raised his shotgun and aimed at her.

"Tried to save him." Her voice carried softly through the moonlit room.

Dean frowned. "Say what?"

"Always try to save them, but he comes." Her face darkened and she seemed to look around fearfully. "Killed him."

Dean's heart stopped for a moment, he was sure. His fingers numbed around the stock of the shotgun and his jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "Where…is he?" Dean asked, barely able to get the words out, and he was unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

"Buried with me." Lara shook her head sadly, and then her eyes focused on him, seeing him for real. "You are…brother?"

"Yes!" Dean said quickly and took a step toward her, letting hope quiet the screaming fear that he was too late in his head. "Tell me where he is, dammit!"

"Wants to save you." Lara drifted a little away from him. "Doesn't think he's dead, but…in the box…only death."

"Box?" Dean demanded and followed her as she backed another few feet away. "What box? You mean a coffin?"

Lara nodded and her face became fearful. "He's here. Kill you too."

Dean narrowed his eyes and raised the shotgun at her, thinking she was threatening him but her eyes when she looked at him were sad. "Lara?"

"Run. Please. Can't…can't stop him." Ghostly tears began to track down her glowing face. "Never stop him."

"LARA!"

A new voice bellowed her name through the massive house, and Dean jumped in surprise. Lara gave a choked off scream and vanished in front of him. "What the hell now?" He turned back to the foyer and watched the spirit of a man appear at the top of the stairs. Dean's eyes narrowed, aiming the shotgun steadily at him, and he had a sudden feeling that this whole mess now made sense.

"You're the asshole that killed her, aren't you?" Dean stalked to the bottom of the stairs and glared up at the translucent form of a tall man with blonde hair and cruel eyes. "Lara's not the one that's been killing people. It's you. She's been trying to warn them."

"Bad girl." His voice blew through the hall, rattling the chandelier above in a ragged wind as the temperature took a nosedive.

Dean shivered and aimed up at him. "Where's my brother, you son of a bitch?"

"Can you hear her?" The man asked and the grin he gave sickened Dean. "She calls. She calls!"

Dean snarled, listening to him laugh and started up the stairs. "Where is my brother? Where's Lara?" He knew with a certainty that wherever the sick son of a bitch had planted his lover, he'd put Sam as well, and probably all the others he'd made vanish over the years. The man kept laughing and Dean rolled his eyes. "Lara! I know you can hear me! My brother's not dead yet!"

"Shut up." The man said angrily.

Dean ignored him and appealed to the one spirit in the house who seemed to care. "I can still save him!" He fired both barrels into the man, shredding his spirit and reloaded quickly. "I'm sorry no one saved you, Lara, but my brother is not dead yet! Please!"

"Please?"

Dean turned, hearing the softly spoken word and found her cowering in the door to the hall. He nodded. "Please, Lara. Let me save him. Tell me where Sam is."

"He…he said please." Lara frowned. "Your brother said…he's not dead, is he?"

"No. No, he isn't," Dean said it fiercely, having to believe that. "Please. You show me where he is and I swear to you I will roast the son of a bitch that killed you. He'll never hurt you again, but you gotta give me my brother." He shouted angrily when Lara vanished suddenly. "NO! Come on!"

"Here."

Dean spun again and found her at the top of the stairs. "He's up there?"

"Follow," Lara told him and drifted out of sight above.

Dean ran up the curved stairs and found her waiting in the hall, moving slowly away. He followed her through the house and up another flight of the stairs. Her lover came back, screaming at Dean from the wall beside him and he shot him again, enjoying the spirit's rage-filled scream, and was relieved to find Lara hadn't run away this time. "Lara?"

"This way." Lara led him down another hall and then into a richly appointed bedroom.

Dean looked around the room. It was big. He could have parked four or five Impalas in the thing, and a king-size, four poster bed stood against one wall. Lara stopped beside it. "Where is he?"

Lara turned to the bed and rested a glowing hand lightly upon one of the posts. "He liked to listen to me….while he slept."

"Jesus," Dean groaned with sympathy for the woman whose lover had buried her alive and then listened to her screams every night from his bed. He went to the side of the big bed, bent, and heaved it across the floor with a squeal of wood on wood. Dean straightened and looked at her. "Where? The wall?"

Lara shook her head and pointed a delicate hand to the floor. "So that his bed was the only bed I would ever grace."

Dean shook his head and knelt on the floor. "Lady, your lover was one sick twist. Sam?" Dean banged on the floorboards and put his ear to them and grinned, feeling close to tears when he heard his brother's soft, ragged voice.

"Dean?"

"I'm here, Sammy! Hold on!" Dean shouted and pulled the small axe from his belt.

Sam couldn't believe his ears. He closed his eyes as tears escaped him to run down his cheek. "Dean." He couldn't get his voice above a loud whisper. The rope around his throat was simply too tight and he forced himself not to move. His brother was here, he told himself to force back the near frantic need to be free. He was scared. He couldn't feel anything from his arms or legs. They were dead weight, feeling more like they belonged to someone else than were actually attached to his body, and he knew there was a point where, if the circulation had been cut off long enough, doctors started throwing around words like amputation.

Dean went at the boards of the floor with a vengeance, slamming the hand-axe into them, tearing and digging. He pried up a board and attacked the one next to it. "You tell me…if he's coming…back," Dean said to Lara's spirit over his shoulder. He knew she was still there. He could feel the cold chill from her presence and shook his head at the strangeness of trusting a ghost to have his back, but there was no other choice, because no way was he leaving Sam in the damn floor to gank the lover. He broke through another board and pulled it clear and paled when he saw the coffin hidden beneath them.

"Shit." Dean leaned down and banged a hand on the top. "Sam? You still with me?"

"Yeah."

Dean frowned. His brother's voice sounded…wrong somehow, hoarse, soft, and a little choked. "You alright?"

Sam smiled for the first time in hours, hearing the gruff concern in Dean's voice. "Yeah. I'm…I'm ok." He tried to speak more loudly but the rope stopped him. "Just hurry."

"I'm coming."

Sam arched his head back more to give himself more room to breathe and hoped Dean wouldn't lose it too badly when he saw how he'd been tied up. He smirked. Things like that tended to piss his brother off.

"What'd he do to you?" Dean turned to look over his shoulder and asked Lara. She didn't answer him, giving him an incredibly sad smile instead as she turned away. "Awesome." He turned his attention back to the floor and tore up more of the boards, sweating with the effort in spite of the supernatural chill in the room as he worked to make a hole big enough to reach his brother and get him out. The EMF in his pocket, which had been at a steady whine with Lara's presence suddenly screamed.

Dean dropped the axe and scooped up his shotgun, turned, and reared back with Lara's lover right behind him and towering over him. "Shit!" Dean fired reflexively, dissipating the spirit and glared at the empty doorway where Lara had been and was now gone. "Nice, lady. Thanks for the warning," he growled and went back to his widening hole.

It took him another twenty minutes to rip up enough of the floor and two more shells unloaded at the bastard of a spirit who seemed determined to stop him. Dean stared down into the floor and sighed. The coffin was surrounded by bones, far more than just Lara's. They had to be all of his victims over the years, emptied from the coffin each time he found a new occupant to torture to death. Dean swallowed hard thinking how close his brother had come to being the next of those victims.

"Sammy?" Dean stepped carefully down among the bones and jammed the head of the axe between the wall and lid of the coffin. "Almost got you, dude. Hang on." He rocked the axe head back and forth in the aging wood, grunting with effort until the lid popped clear with a crack. He grabbed hold of it and ripped it off, tossing it up and out of the hole and then had to take a minute to just stare in shock at his little brother, hog-tied inside the coffin, wrapped with rope from ankle to neck with a pool of blood under his head. "Sammy?"

"Dean." Sam gasped and managed to turn his head enough to see him from the corner of his eye. "Get…get me out."

"Ok. Ok, buddy. You're ok." Dean grabbed his flashlight from the bed where he'd propped it to light his work and shone it down along Sam's body, trying to see where to start. He scowled, face darkening with rage as he realized there was a length of rope wrapped around Sam's throat that had clearly been strangling him from the deep abrasions and blood he could see. "Son of a bitch," Dean said softly.

Sam blinked furiously in the sudden light as Dean looked him over and heard the angry hitches in his big brother's breathing. "Dean, can't…can't feel my arms…legs."

"No big. I gotcha," Dean assured him. He pulled the small knife from his boot and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just hold still. I'm gonna get the rope off your neck." Sam gave him a small nod which probably hurt with the way he had his head craned back unnaturally to breathe. Dean slipped the blade in near the front of his throat, keeping the flat of the blade to his skin, and carefully pressed out, taking the rope with the blade until it split along the edge. Sam gasped, sucking in a deep breath and bent forward coughing. "Easy, buddy." Dean dropped a hand to the back of his head into his hair and cursed, feeling all the tacky blood dried into it.

"Thank you," Sam gasped breathlessly and got his breathing back under control with effort. "Thank you. It's not…not Lara. She's…"

"Been trying to save people, yeah. I know." Dean smiled for him when Sam looked up and patted his shoulder. "She's the one who led me to you. Relax. I got this."

Sam nodded and let his head drop back. Just being able to breathe helped calm the panic he was still feeling. "We have to…find him. She doesn't…doesn't deserve…this."

"We will," Dean assured him and set about carefully cutting through the ropes binding him. He shook his head angrily as he cut coil after coil of the heavy stuff. It was wrapped so tightly, Sam was no doubt going to bear the marks of it for weeks. He grimaced when he freed Sam's arms from where they had been bent and strapped to his back; his shoulders were going to be a misery when the feeling started to come back. Dean bent and freed the rope around his brother's hips and then cut through the line that went from his ankles, up his back and had been wrapped around his neck.

"He comes."

Dean jerked in surprise with Lara's voice. "Shit!" He reared up out of the hole and grabbed his shotgun, seeing her spirit hovering at the edge of the hole and looking down at Sam.

"Dean?" Sam managed to roll to his back and saw his brother standing over him with the shotgun and Lara's sad ghost looking in at him. He tried to move his arms and groaned when they didn't do more than twitch.

"Don't move, dude," Dean told him. "Not 'til I untangle you." He didn't want Sam hurting himself trying to get loose when he couldn't feel anything. Dean cocked the shotgun as the EMF screamed again and had to duck when a heavy, metal statue of a rearing horse flew off a shelf on the other side of the room and came for his head. "Come out, you son of a bitch!"

Sam jerked as something heavy crashed above him. He wanted to sit up, to help protect his brother, and groaned in frustration when his body wouldn't cooperate. "Dean, be careful!" He watched as Lara lowered herself into the hole and into the coffin with him once more.

Lara ghosted her fingers over his face as she had before. "Shh. You will be safe now." While Sam couldn't help flinching away slightly from the icy, dead touch just on instinct, after the horror of being left to die alone and essentially buried alive, he was surprised to find her gentle words comforting nonetheless.

Dean saw the man forming in the corner and fired, blowing the spirit apart. He lowered the shotgun and growled. "Wish I had enough salt to do the door and windows in here. Ok." He turned and raised his brows, finding Lara's spirit beside his still-helpless brother with a hand on Sam's face, and he could see his brother shaking from the cold of her touch. "Hands off, lady," Dean warned and bent back down as Lara flickered out of sight. "Why do the dead chicks always get handsy with you, little brother?" He grinned at the disgusted face Sam gave him and went back to cutting the ropes off of him.

"Alright." Dean put the knife back in his boot and leaned over his brother. "I'm gonna get you out of here. You just let me do the work."

Sam rolled his eyes and winced as it made his head pound. "No problem."

Dean smirked, knowing Sam couldn't use his arms and legs yet. He carefully uncurled his brother's arms from his back and slid his hands under his shoulders, pulling him up until he was sitting. He grunted, groaned under Sam's weight and got him standing until he could carefully roll him up onto the floor.

"Dean." Sam swallowed furiously through being moved and lifted, his head rolling, and the pain from his concussion slamming through his head.

"Yeah?" Dean looked down Sam and frowned at the look on his face, recognizing it. "Oh, crap. Hang on." He quickly pulled Sam back up so he was sitting and leaned him forward over the coffin, supporting him with an arm across his chest and not a moment too soon as Sam's stomach rebelled and he vomited down into the coffin. "Breathe, Sammy. Just breathe." He squeezed a hand on the back of his neck and tried to get a look at the head wound that had bled into the puddle.

Sam coughed and gagged and finally it eased off, leaving him weak and gasping while his head spun, and he closed his eyes. "Sorry," He said softly and was grateful for Dean's arm keeping him from tilting back down into the coffin.

Dean snorted. "All part of the service." He wanted to lay Sam back and let him rest, let the feeling come back into his limbs, but he knew damn well Lara's ex wasn't going to leave them alone long enough to do that, and Dean knew the pain was going to be bad and soon. He tossed the shotgun up onto the bed and took a firm grip around Sam's chest again. "Alright. Going up, and try not to puke down my back, dude."

Sam nodded and didn't…couldn't argue as Dean pulled him up into a fireman's carry. His arms and legs were still asleep, but he could feel sensation beginning to tingle in his shoulders and hips. "What…what about Lara?"

"I'll come back and finish this," Dean said firmly, hoping the woman was listening wherever she'd gone off to. He picked up his shotgun, steadied Sam over his shoulders, and made his way out and back down the stairs as quickly as he could with Sam weighing him down. "Dude, how can you…eat salad...and weigh this much?" Dean asked with a gasping laugh as they stepped outside into the night.

Sam had his eyes closed, fighting the need to throw up again and groaned. "'cause…m'not…a midget."

"Shuddup!" Dean growled. They reached the car, and he pulled open the passenger door, carefully lowered Sam down, and got him in the seat. He bent and eased his brother's legs inside the car and closed the door. He gave a last look to the house and ran around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel. "Lara's gonna have to fend for herself for one more night."

Sam nodded and let his head fall back to the seat. "S'gonna be bad…isn't it?" He asked tiredly. The faint burning in his shoulders and hips was becoming a dull ache of pins and needles. It was a relief to know he would get feeling back, but worrying at the same time for how much it was going to hurt when he did.

"Yeah, buddy." Dean didn't bother lying. He'd spent half a day pinned under a tree once when they were kids. It'd taken their Dad that long to find them and, after he had, after he'd killed the wendigo, Sam had spent the other half of the day rubbing feeling back into his legs with him while Dean had tried and failed not to cry with the sensation. "One night only free pass for you, Sammy. You get to whine all you want and I won't give you crap about it." Dean grinned. "Well, I won't give you too much crap about it."

"Jerk," Sam said with a soft laugh while the rumble of the Impala's engine helped soothe his frayed nerves.

"Bitch," Dean chuckled and stretched a hand over the seat, resting it on Sam's shoulder, not wanting to hurt his already abused neck.

Sam was twitching in his seat by the time they reached the motel and Dean winced in sympathy for the grimace of pain on his face. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door, kneeling down. "How bad is it now?"

Sam shook his head. "Not bad."

"Uh huh." Dean didn't believe him for a moment and knew it was only going to get worse. He reached in and pulled Sam out slowly, getting him over his shoulders again and could feel his brother's arms and legs beginning to jump with returning blood and sensation.

Sam's head protested the up and down movements and he wanted a shower so bad he could cry. "Wish I could stand up."

Dean nodded as he arranged Sam on his bed, straightening his legs out and went to the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water and then went to the bathroom, filled the ice bucket with water and grabbed a towel. "Ok, I need to get a look at your cracked melon." He sat next to Sam and smiled when he turned his head away so Dean could look.

"Feels disgusting," Sam said of his blood-caked hair and sucked in a breath in pain when Dean's fingers touched behind his ear.

"Easy." Dean gently moved the caked hair away, letting water dribble from the towel into the mess until he found the gash about an inch behind Sam's right ear and roughly an inch long. It had long since stopped bleeding, but it had been a hell of a hit. He set about cleaning it with the towel. "What the hell were you thinking, Sam? Going out there without me?"

Sam closed his eyes as Dean's ministrations made his head pound, gentle as he was. "Thought it was you…used your voice on the…crap, ow…on the phone." He swallowed hard against another wave of nausea and tried to use that to ignore the increasing burning sensation in his limbs. "Said you…were in trouble."

Dean's mouth fell open and he groaned. Sam running off in the middle of the night to save him made perfect sense and he should have figured it would be something like that.

"When I was…" Sam's voice hitched slightly. "…trapped….in there, all I could think was that you were somewhere in the house, too…..in trouble, maybe hurt…..or….." he couldn't finish the thought. "And I couldn't help you, and..." He closed his eyes briefly, and Dean remained silent, gently trying to wipe away more of the blood, sensing that Sam wasn't finished and was just working up to whatever else he needed to say. "Dean…if you were in trouble too…." A shudder ran through Sam's body and a single tear escaped to roll down his face. "I really thought I might…die there….like that. Dean…" Sam felt his control slipping as the experience washed over him now that he had time to process it, and he fought to push it back down.

Dean's face had darkened as Sam spoke, realizing the terror and horror that his little brother must have gone through alone and trapped and wondering if there was even a hope of rescue. "That son of a bitch is dead, dude. I'm really gonna enjoy ganking his ass tomorrow night."

"He's…buried in the town cemetery," Sam had to fight the growing need to cry out while he choked back tears. The pins and needles were slowly crawling down his arms and legs and becoming maddening. "Found him earlier."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh and set the towel aside. "Of course you did." He watched his brother's face and his twitching arms and legs and sighed. "Feel your fingers yet?"

Sam shook his head, suddenly afraid to open his mouth and let out the moan of pain trying to escape. His eyes flew open when he felt hands at his shoulder.

"Take it easy." Dean smirked and started rubbing briskly up and down Sam's arms, first one and then the other. He gave each a few minutes and then moved on to his legs. "It's gonna get bad fast with me doing this, but it'll pass faster."

Sam nodded. "I…I know," He gasped it and then let out the pained moan, rolling his head and slamming his eyes closed. "I remember." That night in the woods after their Dad had gotten the tree off his brother had been the only time he'd ever seen his big brother helpless and crying. Sam would have done anything to make him feel better, and, at only twelve, it had been a little scary. Dean had always seemed untouchable to him until that night, and Sam had spent hours massaging feeling back into his legs until his hands had cramped and hurt and Dean had finally passed out in exhaustion. Sam wished he could do that now, pass out and just sleep through the liquid fire that began to pour down his arms and legs.

"Breathe, Sammy. Nice and easy," Dean coached, hearing the ragged breaths start to punch out of his brother's chest. He was working to keep his anger in check as he found spiral bruises running up Sam's legs and arms from the ropes. The kid had been pretzeled inside that damn coffin.

Sam's arms and legs were twitching in earnest, burning and itching, and he couldn't stop the grunts of pain escaping him. "Shit…Dean!"

"Right here, little brother," Dean patted a hand on his chest and went back to rubbing his arms.

An hour later, the tear-tracks had dried on Sam's face. His chest burned from the effort of surviving the feeling returning to his limbs while his head pounded. He still had pins and needles in his arms and legs, but it was more manageable now. He was even able to somewhat help rub the feeling back, but still couldn't stop the twitching and jumping while the nerves came back to life screaming. He'd thrown up twice more, though he'd had nothing but water to toss.

Dean paused, taking his hands from his brother's leg and tried to shake some feeling back into his own fingers. They were cramped and tired, but Sam was still hurting. He looked up at Sam's pale face and the lines of exhaustion there and sighed. "Dude, try to sleep."

Sam shook his head. "Can't." He opened his eyes and looked miserably at him. "Still feels like my legs are on fire." He shifted his shoulders and groaned. "And I think both my shoulders are dislocated from being tied up like that."

Dean snorted. "No, they're not. Stop whining."

"Hey! You said I could whine all I wanted." Sam managed a lop-sided smile through the pain and Dean laughed.

"Fine. Go on." Dean grinned and slapped Sam's leg before he started rubbing below his knee again. "Knock yourself out." He rolled his eyes. "No, really, knock yourself out, man."

"Shut up." Sam groaned and went back to opening and closing his fists. It was still difficult, but he was relieved they were listening to him again, even if it hurt like hell. Dean had helped him get his jacket and flannel off and seeing the angry bruises ringing his arms from the rope seemed to make it hurt more. The dead bastard who tied him up hadn't been taking any chances, and he wondered if he'd done the same to Lara.

"She'll be fine, dude."

Sam looked up in surprise. "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes again. "You're transparent sometimes, you know that? Ghost chick. Lara. She'll be fine. I'll torch her boyfriend tomorrow, and if she doesn't go on her own after that, I'll hit the house and send her right after him. Stop worrying about the dead lady."

"I'm not worrying," Sam protested and let his head fall back to the pillow while his eyes slipped closed.

Dean chuckled. "We should go to Vegas after this. Take a break." He smiled when Sam cracked an eye to look at him over his twitching body. "There's this stripper. Calls herself Remora."

Sam picked his head up enough to raise a brow and stare at him. "What kind of stripper name is that?"

"You know, like the sucker fish!" Dean pursed his lips for effect. "Lips like a Hoover, dude! She can suck your…"

"Please stop traumatizing me." Sam groaned with a weary laugh and let his head fall back; no longer able to hold it up.

Dean snorted and switched legs. Sam was close to passing out, he could tell in the way he was slow to react, and as he watched, his brother's head tilted over, rolling to the side while his mouth fell slightly open. Dean smirked and sat back. "Sammy?" He asked softly and didn't get a response. "About damn time." He stood, stretching the kinks out of his arms and back and tugged the blanket off his bed. He laid it carefully over his brother's still twitching and jumping arms and legs and hoped he'd get at least a little sleep before it woke him again. Dean brushed careful fingers over the bruises and abrasions on Sam's neck, relieved that they didn't seem to be causing him any trouble other than just hurting. It could have been a lot worse.

Dean laid out on his own bed, leaned up against the headboard and picked up the remote. He turned the television on low and kept one eye on Sam, letting the sight of him there settle the last of the soul-deep terror he'd felt when he thought he'd lost him…when he thought he'd been too late. He shook himself and smiled grimly.

"Not on my watch," Dean promised himself and his brother softly. He didn't know where the hell their Dad was or what trouble he was in, but he would keep Sam safe no matter what. That was his job; watch out for Sammy. He nodded to himself and let his head drop back to the wall, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him for whatever time Sam was out, sure in the knowledge that he'd wake the moment his brother did. "Night, Sammy."

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_To Be Continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sam woke and blinked gritty eyes open. He had a vague memory of waking several times in the night from pain and from nightmares and finding Dean next to him each time. He smiled and closed his eyes again, feeling safe and protected. Some things never changed.

"You gonna wake up already?" Dean asked suddenly.

Sam jerked his head up, finding his brother at the end of his bed and snorted. He let his head drop back to the pillow. "Thinking about it."

Dean smirked and set a cup of coffee on the nightstand next to his brother. "I'm gonna go torch the asshole in a couple hours, soon as it's dark enough." He raised his brows when Sam looked at him. "What? You slept all day, dude. Not my fault."

"You're not going alone," Sam said firmly and started pushing himself up in the bed.

"Well, you're sure as hell not comin'." Dean glared over at him and then rolled his eyes when Sam flipped him off. "You learn that at Stanford?"

"I'm sore, not crippled." Sam took the coffee Dean had brought him and sipped gratefully at it with a small smile for the fact it was his kind of coffee, light and sweet. "I'm backing you up."

Dean gave him the evil-eye when Sam tossed his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and then had to stop and groan. "Yeah, you look awesome."

"Shuddup." Sam rubbed his sore arms and legs and stood. "Take a shower and I'll be great." He ran his fingers through his blood-matted hair and grimaced. "Definitely a shower."

Dean watched him go into the bathroom, eyeing the spiral rope bruises up his arms and shook his head. He briefly toyed with the idea of taking off right then and leaving Sam behind, but his resourceful little brother would just hotwire a car and follow him. "Pain in my ass," Dean grumbled affectionately and went out to make sure they had everything they needed to salt and burn the bastard's grave and the bones left in the house. He hadn't forgotten them. They couldn't be sure just how many victims there were, but the pile around the coffin where he'd found Sam had been a little heart-wrenching. That was a lot of people who had died screaming, alone and terrified. He shuddered with how close Sam had come to being one of them.

Sam turned off the shower and leaned against the wall for a moment with a groan. Standing up under the hot spray and washing his hair the three times it had taken to get all the blood out had taken what little energy he had. He pushed himself straight and got out. If Dean figured out just how exhausted and sore he still was, his brother would find a way to keep him from going with him tonight, probably up to and including handcuffing him to the bed, and Sam wasn't about to let that happen. He dressed and pulled his flannel on, figuring if Dean couldn't see all the bruises he might forget about them, and went out.

Dean rolled his eyes at his fully-clothed little brother; like he wouldn't remember just how badly his arms and legs were abraded from the ropes because he had a shirt on? "And maybe if you put a scarf on, I'll forget about all those ropes burns on your neck, dude."

"What?" Sam stared and then groaned, putting a hand to his abused throat. He gave a rueful smile and dropped into a chair at the table. "Ok. Fine. Yeah, I'm sore but I can still back you up, and you need it." He rubbed a hand over his head and sighed as it pounded with a headache. "I still can't remember how he got the drop on me. I'm not letting you go alone."

Dean frowned, not liking the reminder that Sam had been concussed enough to lose time. That was never a good thing. He got up and went to him, knelt, and grabbed his chin in his hand. "Look up."

"Dude."

"Don't gimme crap." Dean glared until Sam obeyed and looked up. His eyes still looked a little glassy, but his pupils were even and Dean sighed. "Alright; but you're eating something before we go do this tonight. Come on."

**_-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-_ **

Sam sat miserably in the rain above the grave while Dean dug and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes yet again. He smirked, knowing he could be a lot more miserable as he watched his big brother, six feet down in a muddy grave, shoveling dirt while the sides began to run with mud and threaten to cave in on him. "You sure you don't wanna switch?" Sam called, knowing full-well what the response would be.

Dean looked up and saw the smile on his face and snarled. "You keep grinnin' at me like that and I _will_ let your ass down here to dig!" He wiped his sleeve over his eyes, clearing rain water and mud out of them, and bent back to the grave. If he didn't strike wood soon, he was going to call it a night and leave it until the damn flood stopped. He would have loved to give Sam the shovel, but no matter what his little brother said, he knew how badly his arms and legs were bruised, and standing knee deep in mud with a shovel wouldn't do him any favors. "Probably get a damn infection on top of it," Dean grumbled and thrust the shovel into the dirt again where it banged hollowly on something solid. "Yahtzee!"

Sam shifted his grip on the shotgun and stood straighter; this was usually when the spirit of whoever they were about to send on would figure out something was up. He pulled Dean's EMF out of his pocket, fingers slipping on the ziplock baggie they'd put it in. "Nothing yet!"

"Two minutes!" Dean called up and went back to scraping mud off the lid of the coffin. The rain running into the grave kept sluicing it back and made him growl. "Ok, maybe five minutes. Dammit!" He stopped for a moment and stared at it, trying to decide how best to get to the bones and burn them without the rain ruining the whole plan and washing the lighter fluid away.

Sam scanned the dark graveyard around them while more shovels of wet dirt came flying up out of the open grave. "How are you gonna get him to burn?" He yelled down.

"Got a plan!" Dean cleared a trench along the side of the casket that would flip open, digging another foot down. "Toss me the bag!"

Sam grabbed the backpack and dropped it over into the grave into Dean's waiting hands and then spun as the EMF in his hand started to whine. "Whatever you're gonna do, hurry up! We've got company!"

"Dammit." Dean took out his knife and jammed it into the casket's seam. Breaking it open would have been a hell of a lot easier but it also would mean letting the rain pour in and ruin any chance he had, so he jimmied the lid instead. It popped with a hiss of escaping air and a foul smell. "Yech." He covered his nose for a moment and then dug in the bag for the salt. He raised the lid only enough to see the glint of white bone inside and sprayed salt from the container over them heavily before he let it drop again and went back to the bag for the lighter fluid.

Sam felt the temperature drop and could almost see the falling rain becoming sluggish as it started to freeze. He brought the muzzle of the shotgun up and spun. "Shit!" He cursed, finding the enraged spirit of Lara's lover just behind him. He fired at the same moment he was lifted from his feet and thrown. "Dean!"

"Sammy?" Dean stood up in the grave in time to watch his little brother go flying over him and crash into a statue that cracked under the impact, broke, and landed in a heap with him. Sam's shotgun fell into the grave and Dean scooped it out of the mud. "Son of a bitch!" He was torn between wanting to run to his brother and needing to finish the job. He snarled and grabbed the lighter fluid. "Hang on, Sam." Dean knelt next to the casket again and slipped the bottle half inside, squeezing the fluid out while keeping it closed to the keep the rain out. He raised the shotgun in his left hand and fired when the bastard's spectral form appeared over the grave. "You're lucky I can't get my hands on your ass, pal!" He emptied most of the lighter fluid into the casket and used the bottle to prop the lid open a bare inch then took out his Zippo.

"Fun's over, you sick son of a bitch," Dean growled angrily and spun the wheel, grateful beyond words when the flame caught in spite of the rain, and he tossed it into the casket. For a moment, there was nothing, and then he heard the crackle of fire and flames began to lick out through the crack. Dean stood and went to the other end of the grave to climb out so his efforts wouldn't dump mud into the open casket and put out the fire. He looked up in time to watch Lara's murderous lover go up in a ball of flame, his rage-filled scream echoing through the cemetery, and then he was gone.

"Good riddance." Dean tossed the shotgun up and then jumped. He slipped and slid in the mud, cursing and then managed to find enough purchase to climb out and roll away. "Sammy?" He looked over, and seeing that Sam was moving in the rubble of the statue allowed him to take a breath as he walked over and dropped down next to him. "Shit, dude. You're gonna give me a heart attack. You ok?"

Sam moaned softly, pushing something heavy off his chest and opened his eyes to find a piece of the statue's arm there. "Think so."

"Come on. Lemme get a look at you." Dean took his brother's arm and pulled him up, sitting him back on the base of the destroyed statue. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam rolled his eyes and slapped at his brother's middle finger. "Very funny."

"You take another hit to the head?" Dean asked, running his fingers through his brother's wet mop of hair in search of new wounds only to have his hands shoved away.

"No. My head's fine thanks." Sam groaned and held a hand to his chest. "Ribs, on the other hand…ow."

"Yeah, that looked like it hurt." Dean pulled out his flashlight and bent, flicking it on. "Up." He waved a hand and Sam pulled his shirt up. "Ouch," Dean said on seeing the livid bruising already starting to appear on his right side. "You're lucky if nothing's broken."

Sam hissed in a breath while Dean pressed his fingers into his sides, checking his ribs and saw stars for a moment when he found a particularly tender spot. He opened his eyes and realized his head had dropped forward and was resting on his brother's shoulder while Dean kept a hand on the back of his neck and spoke to him.

"Sammy? Take a breath, dude. You're ok."

"Sorry," Sam managed finally and picked his head back up. He took a slow, careful breath around the fresh pain and grimaced.

Dean sighed in relief and patted his shoulder before slipping a hand under it. "Doesn't feel like it's broken, but it's gonna hurt like hell for a while. Let's go. Bed for you."

Sam shook his head. "Lara. We have to check on her."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on, man. She can wait one more…"

"She's waited twenty years with that sadistic bastard terrorizing her, Dean. We have to make sure she's moved on. Please?" He looked up at his big brother with every ounce of 'puppy dog' he could put into his eyes and smiled when he saw the moment Dean caved.

"Not fair, dude. Not friggin' fair. Fine." Dean shook his head and got him standing, keeping a hand fisted in the shoulder of his jacket when Sam swayed. "But you're not doing anything. You can sit in the car. I'll check on her."

Sam nodded wearily and pushed irritably at the wet hair in his eyes. "I can do that." He looked down into the open grave as they neared and the curls of flame on one side of the coffin. "Hey, is that your bag?" He could just see a strap being slowly covered over by mud.

"I'll get a new one." Dean looked down at his mud-covered clothes. "I am not climbing back in that mess."

Sam chuckled and nodded. "You look like a walking mud bath, dude."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean growled and then pulled Sam into a hug, making sure to press as much mud as he could onto him and stood back with a grin while Sam sputtered. "Teach you to be a smart-ass."

Sam groaned, brushing at the mud that clung to his shirt and jacket. "You're such a jerk."

"Bitch." Dean chuckled and led him back to the car. It hurt a little climbing into his baby and hearing the wet squelch of mud on her seats, and Dean wondered if he could get Sam to detail the car. He shook his head with a smirk; probably not.

Sam occupied himself on the drive back to Lara's house by trying not to move or breathe too much around what had to be at least a badly bruised rub if not cracked. He shook his head; bruised, because Dean would have found a crack.

"I'd feel a lot better about going back to that damn house if you tried breathing like a normal person, Sam." Dean said it like he was amused, but he got a hand on his brother's shoulder and watched him with concern. "How bad do your ribs hurt?"

Sam nodded. "It's ok," he said and managed to get a few regular breaths by pressing his hand into the ache. "I'll be fine." He even pulled off a smile that made Dean roll his eyes. Sam looked up warily at the massive house as Dean parked in front of it. He still didn't remember coming here or being attacked, and only vaguely recalled escaping the place with his brother. The terrifying moments in between when he realized that he was, for all intents and purposes, buried alive in a coffin, albeit under a floor rather than underground, not knowing if there was even a hope of rescue – THOSE he remembered with horrifying clarity. He jumped when Dean's hand landed on his shoulder again.

"You're not going in, remember? Relax." Dean smiled. "Back in ten." He got out before Sam could decide to strike up another argument and went to the trunk. He pulled out another jug of salt, a bottle of lighter fluid, and a pack of matches, and opted for paranoia as he grabbed the shotgun even though the house should be quiet. He nodded to Sam's tired eyes in the passenger seat and jogged up the stairs of the porch and into the house.

"Lara?" Dean called, sincerely hoping there would be no reply and that she had moved on peacefully. He smiled when there was no response and the meter in his pocket stayed silent and started up the stairs. There were far too many remains up in that bedroom for him to sort out, and he decided the house really needed to come down. Too many bad things had happened in it, and whether people admitted it or not, when enough bad shit happened in one place, it left a mark.

He reached the top of the stairs and started down the hall toward the flight up to the bedroom and stopped as the EMF began to whine. "Aw, hell. Lara?" Dean started walking again and, when he reached the foot of the short flight up to the bedroom, she was there. He looked sadly at her. "You can go now. We torched that sick son of a bitch. It's safe."

Lara smiled and reached out a glowing hand to brush the backs of her fingers over Dean's cheek. "I know. Thank you."

Dean shivered with the chill of her touch and gave a lopsided smile. "So? Go on. Cross over or whatever." He moved around her up the stairs, and when he reached the top, she was there again.

"The others are free now, too, but…"

"Wait…others?" Dean asked and glanced over to the open hole in the floor and the bones he knew were there.

"Once he was gone…they came." Lara floated across the room to stand over the mass grave and looked up at Dean with a frown. "They are angry."

Dean groaned. "Awesome."

"They won't listen to me." Lara shook her head and then looked around as though she were hearing something else. "I talk to them, but…they won't hear me."

"Ok. You should, you know, cross over now," Dean went to the hole and took out the salt, opening the container, "before I do this, because, honestly, I don't where the hell souls go when we salt and burn 'em."

"You're not safe," Lara said firmly.

"I'll be fine," Dean assured her. "Please. Sam'll feel better if he knows you went on your own."

"Sam?" Lara frowned and then smiled. She looked down into the hole at the empty coffin. "He said please."

"That's right. Sam wants you safe, Lara. We both do." Dean upended the salt over the bones and waited for her to look back up at him. "Please?"

Lara's face softened with gratitude and she nodded once. "Thank you."

Dean watched as she seemed to glow brighter and brighter and finally faded with a last, sad sigh. "Good luck," he said softly and finished pouring out the salt, careful to make sure he covered all the bones. The EMF, which had gone silent for a moment, started whining again and picked up in pitch. He rolled his eyes. "'Cause this day hasn't been awesome enough already." He dropped the salt and pulled out the lighter fluid, hastily squirting it down. "Just leave me alone for ten more seconds, and you can all go on your merry damn way!"

The temperature in the bedroom dropped and a chorus of howls went up through the house, the cries of angry, murdered spirits no longer being suppressed by the bastard who'd killed them. "Not good," Dean growled and grit his teeth as a wind picked up in the room. He dropped the lighter fluid into the open hole and fumbled to get the matches out of his pocket. Dean looked up at a loud clatter in time to watch the heavy iron horse that almost hit him the night before rise off the floor and fly toward him. He tried to duck out of the way, but this time he didn't quite make it.

The heavy statue glanced along the top of his head and Dean hit the floor hard, fighting the blackness that tried to take him. He rolled to his side and felt blood trickling down his head and was relieved to find he still had hold of the matches. He groaned, clenching his teeth to keep from passing out while the room felt like it was spinning around him. Dean had to fight shaking fingers but finally got the matches lit, waiting for the flames to catch them all and then tossed it over the floor and into the hole.

"Crap," Dean said weakly and fell onto his back as fire roared to life a few feet away. The thought passed hazily through his mind that setting a place on fire without being sure you could move to then leave said place may not have been the greatest plan in the world. He had a moment of profound regret as he thought of Sam having to deal with losing him so soon after Jessica. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he mumbled, as darkness closed in around him and he couldn't fight the need to pass out any longer.

Sam sat in the car with his head resting on the seat and tried to let himself fall asleep, but he couldn't, not while his brother was in the house alone. He knew it should be safe with the evil bastard gone, and Lara wasn't any harm to anyone, but his gut kept telling him something was wrong. He checked his watch again and saw that it had been nearly ten minutes and sighed. Dean would tease him for being a girl, but he'd take it. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed his brother. Sam listened to it ring unanswered and looked up at the house. His jaw dropped open when he saw the first tendril of smoke rising from the roof.

"No," Sam breathed. Dean's phone went to voicemail, and he shot out of the car. He staggered for a moment, cradling his ribs, and then ran up the steps and inside. "Dean!" Sam shouted and went up the stairs as fast as he could. "Dean? Answer me!" The smell of smoke grew in the upstairs hall, and Sam tried to remember which way they had come when Dean had gotten him out. He turned to his left and knew he was going the right direction when the smoke thickened. Sam ducked low, gasping as his bruised ribs protested, and climbed the short stair up into the master bedroom.

He froze for a moment in horror seeing his brother lying motionless on the floor mere feet from where fire roared in the open hole Dean had made in the floor to reach him the night before, and the smoke billowed up to fill the top half of the room. Flames had also caught the bed and the wall behind it, and were quickly spreading. "Dean!" Shaking himself from the fear that had momentarily gripped him, Sam fell to his knees and crawled over to his brother where he lay. He ran a hand over his brother's head through the blood-matted hair and grimaced, finding a large welt and the open cut.

"Ok. Hang on. Gotta get you out of here." Sam pulled Dean up gently so he was sitting, stood, and burst out coughing in the layer of smoke. He dropped back down and waited until his lungs cleared. The fire was sending waves of stupefying heat through the room, and he knew there wasn't much time. He moved around behind his insensible big brother and slid his hands under his shoulders.

"Gonna…drag you. Sorry." Sam stood again and started pulling, making sure to keep Dean's head below the smoke but had no such help for his own. He stopped every few feet to duck down and cough and suck in a clean breath before standing and pulling Dean's weight again. Sam got him down the short flight to the hall with Dean's boots thumping on each stair and fell to a knee, coughing and gasping. His lungs were burning from the smoke and the pain in his ribs was screaming for him to stop, but he pushed his own discomfort aside. The fire followed them down the stairs, and Sam couldn't help the panic that gripped him with the memory of Jess still so fresh in his mind.

"No," Sam gasped and picked Dean's shoulders up again. His brother was not going to burn alive like she had. He was not going to lose him to fire like he'd lost his girlfriend and his mother. He stood again and pulled Dean down the hall, holding his breath as long as he could until the pain in his ribs grew too much and he stopped again, dropping to a knee to cough and heave. Sam leaned his head against his brother's, oblivious to the blood in his hair and tried to find the energy to keep going. The whole upper floor was burning, and the flames crackled and jumped along like it was chasing after them.

"Almost." Sam said in a hoarse, desperate voice and looked down the long, curved front stairs to the open door. He ignored the burning in his chest, watering, burning eyes, and the need to just lie down and cough, and picked Dean's shoulders up again. Sam pulled him down the stairs, listening to the thump of Dean's boots again over the now-roaring fire. Sweat poured off him in buckets to drip down onto Dean. The heat was oppressive, along with the smoke, and became Sam's personal hell. Each time he thought he could go no further, not one more step, he looked down at his brother's face and steeled his resolve.

Sam pulled his brother out of the sprawling house and down the steps, out into the drive and to the Impala. It was safely back enough from the house that they were in no danger of being caught in the inferno that now raged. He wanted to get Dean in the car and away, but as he fell to his knees behind him and let Dean's head rest in his lap…he couldn't. He curled an arm around his bruised ribs, and they were a white-hot agony in his chest. His eyes wouldn't stop watering and his lungs burned for air even as he gasped and coughed. He didn't realize he'd started to fall to his side until his head hit the ground, and all Sam could do was stare at his brother's legs and hope that Dean would be alright as he gave in to the coughing and wheezing and closed his eyes.

Dean groaned himself awake and frowned, unable to decide what the wheezing bellows sound in his ears was, and then he heard the crackling sound of flames… "Shit!" Dean cursed, coughed, and jerked his head up. It proved to be a mistake when pain slammed through his skull and he lowered it back to… "Wha'?" He put a hand behind his head and realized the soft thing it was resting on was a leg, and then craned his head a little more and his eyes blew wide. Sam lay slumped over to his side, coughing and gasping like a long-distance runner, and all Dean could smell was smoke. He let his eyes travel up and jerked again, seeing that the entire top floor of Lara's house was ablaze and smoke poured from blown out windows and the front door that stood wide open. He quickly pieced together what had happened; that Sam had realized he was in trouble and come in after him and somehow, in spite of his bruised ribs, dragged Dean down a hall and two flights of stairs to get him to safety.

"Shit, Sammy," Dean breathed, a little in awe, and picked his head up again, more carefully this time, but he needed to get to his struggling little brother. He made it to his knees and took a minute to just let his head hang and fight the sudden need to throw up. It passed, and he crawled over to Sam's head. "Sam. Hey. You with me?"

Sam blinked his eyes open in surprise. The relief that blew through him at seeing Dean awake and moving was enough to make him weak and dizzy. "Dean." Just speaking his name sent him into another round of coughing, and he curled around his bruised ribs until his head was stopped by his brother's knee.

"Take it easy, buddy." Dean put a hand to his head and glanced back at the burning house. "How much of that crap did you breathe in getting me out?" He watched Sam shake his head, but he didn't answer, and his worry went up a few more notches. He heard the sound of sirens in the distance and made a judgment call given his swimming vision. Normally, sirens translated to 'get the hell out of there fast,' but considering the shape they were both in, that wasn't about to happen. "Sam? Listen. We saw the fire and stopped to help, and whoever set it, jumped us. Didn't see who it was and we can't identify them. Got it?"

Sam nodded. Dean was going to let them be taken to a hospital, and as much as he wanted to argue that he was fine and they could leave, he couldn't take a whole breath without coughing, and Dean's head looked like he'd been tossed from the roof.

Dean sat, stretched his legs out and pulled his brother's head and shoulders into his lap where he could see him better, propping him up a little to try and help with his breathing. He didn't like that Sam sounded like he was choking on every breath. "Slow it down, Sam." He kept one hand on Sam's chest and put the other up to his aching, bloody head as the first fire truck roared into the drive. "This is gonna be fun."

**_-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-_ **

Several hours later, Dean had bullied his way into a room with his brother and sat on the side of his bed, ignoring his own in favor of being next to Sam when he woke. His own head was wrapped in gauze and he had a dose of painkillers in his system that gave him a nice little buzz, and he needed it to keep him calm. Explaining to the firemen and the cops had been the easy part. The ride to the hospital in the ambulance…that had been hard. Dean's head been pounding and spinning, but Sam's throat had closed up on him. Between the smoke inhalation and being choked twelve hours before that, his gasping breaths had become weaker and weaker until Dean was being shoved out of the way so the EMT could shove a tube…a damn TUBE down his little brother's throat to keep him alive, and Sam had been awake through it all. His panicked eyes had never left Dean's, and Dean had kept a vice-like grip on his leg to let him know he wasn't going to leave him.

"Anytime you wanna wake up, Sammy," Dean said softly and carded his fingers through Sam's shaggy hair and rested it there.

"He'll be fine, dear." A nurse, an attractive brunette, said as she came in the door and took in the sight of the older brother comforting the younger with a soft smile. "His throat just needs a little time is all."

Dean nodded. "Of course he'll be fine." He looked at the tube in Sam's mouth and knew the kid was going to have a minor freak-out when he woke up and felt it. "When can this come out?"

The nurse checked the younger brother's vitals, smiling at finding them where they should be and met the elder's eyes. "As soon as his doctor says the swelling has gone down enough. How's your head?"

"It's fine."

"You're supposed to be resting."

Dean rolled his eyes and bit back the moan when it sent a stab of pain behind his eyes. "I am resting. Right here. And here's where I'm gonna stay."

"Uh huh." The nurse smiled and patted his shoulder. "That's fine. Just don't plan on any line dancing in the next day or three while your head heals."

Dean was surprised into a chuckle. "I promise; no Riverdancing on Sammy's bed." He grinned as the nurse left with a laugh and turned back to his brother. He felt Sam's head shift minutely under his hand and smiled. "Sam?" Sam may have been out of Dean's sight for four years, but Dean still knew every noise, expression, and movement the kid made, and Sam was fighting his way awake. He pushed aside the thought that it was kind of a sad testament to their messed up lives that he actually knew what his brother sounded like trying to fight his way back from unconsciousness because he had heard it so often. "That's it, buddy. Come on. Wake up." Dean rubbed a thumb back and forth over Sam's temple to give him something to focus on other than the tube down his throat. "Right here, Sammy. Open your eyes."

Sam felt something odd in his mouth, in his throat, but it was whatever was rubbing on his forehead that called him back. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling sluggish and dazed, and found Dean leaning over him.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean kept his hand on his head. "Don't freak out, ok? There's a tube in your throat." He watched Sam's eyes widen and stopped the hand he tried to bring up to it. "No, leave it."

Sam stared up at him fearfully because, now that Dean had mentioned it, he could feel the tube like someone had shoved a pipe into his throat, and he felt like he was going to choke on it.

"Take it easy!" Dean listened to the beeping of Sam's heart monitor shoot up. "Hey! Look at me. Do I look worried?" Sam's eyes met his brother's, reading his expression, and he relaxed slightly and gave him a short shake of his head and Dean smiled. "It's only there to help you breathe. They'll take it out any time now so just stay calm. That's it."

Sam closed his eyes and let the hand on his head and the one Dean rested on his chest keep him from losing it. He moved a hand to the right side of his chest and frowned.

"Yeah; your bruised rib cracked," Dean said, understanding the silent question. "Probably while you were dragging my heavy ass down two flights of stairs. Thanks for that, by the way." He saw Sam smirk around the tube and chuckled. "I'm not fat. Pie is healthy." The sound that came out of Sam would have been a laugh he was sure but was reduced to an uncomfortable choking sound. "Shuddup."

Sam was fighting the urge to yank the thing out of his throat and heard the door to the room open though he couldn't move his head.

"He's awake?"

Dean nodded to Sam's doctor. "Couple minutes ago. He wants the tube out."

The doctor went around to the other side of the bed and smiled down at Sam's wide eyes. "Nice to see you awake, Sam. I'm going to check your throat. It's going to be a little uncomfortable, but I just need you to stay still for me alright?" The boy gave him a nod and he smiled. "Alright." He'd been a little horrified when they had brought the two boys in, and the state of the younger brother's throat, with obvious signs of having been strangled, and viciously, had worried him, not to mention the bruises covering the rest of his body that looked suspiciously like he had been bound with coils of rope. Dean had almost forgotten about those and had quickly elaborated on the explanation he had already given to the police to include the arsonist having tied Sam up after Dean had been knocked out. It was a flimsy cover story considering the extent of Sam's earlier bruising, but it had sufficed for the moment, and Dean wasn't planning on them being around long enough to have to try to explain further.

Dean let Sam clamp a hand around his forearm and kept his own on his brother's head while the doctor felt around his neck. "Be outta here in no time, kiddo," Dean told him. "I'll even buy you ice cream. One pint for every day you don't talk." He grinned at the bitch-face that earned him. "What? Bet you ten the doc here tells you to keep your trap shut for a few days."

The doctor chuckled and straightened. "I will indeed. In the meantime, how about we try taking this tube out, Sam?"

Sam nodded as furiously as he was able. He had the overwhelming need to cough now that the doctor had pushed and pressed around his throat and reminded him just how sore it was.

Dean watched while the doctor unhooked things, peeled surgical tape from the corner of Sam's mouth and refused to move away. "Nope."

The doctor looked at him, amused and then sighed. "Fine. Sam? Take a deep breath and when I pull, breathe out as hard as you can."

Sam nodded again and sucked in a breath through the tube, which seemed harder now that it wasn't hooked up to anything. He tried not to gag when he felt the doctor take hold of it and breathed out hard while he pulled. The sensation made his eyes water and his throat burn and ended with him gagging and coughing hard enough that Dean pulled him up and let him rest against his shoulder.

"Easy, Sammy." Dean rested his hand on the back of his brother's neck and gave the doctor a dirty look. Even knowing it was to help Sam, it still pissed him off watching his brother be hurt.

Sam held on to Dean's arm while he coughed, letting his head rest on his shoulder and finally managed a few gasping breaths that didn't make him want to pass out with Dean's hand a comforting weight on the back of his neck. He ignored the doctor's voice and focused instead on Dean's telling him to slow down and he did. "Dean," Sam managed in a very hoarse, gravelly abused voice after a moment but smiled in relief.

Dean grinned and cuffed the back of his brother's head gently and took hold of the back of his neck again. "No talking, sasquatch."

"How are you breathing, Sam?" the doctor asked and bent until he could see his patient's face.

Sam endured the next several minutes of a cold stethoscope on him and being told to breathe in and breathe out and was thankful that Dean stayed right where he was, giving him a support to lean on. Finally, the doctor left them alone and Sam let out a long breath.

Dean snorted as Sam went heavy against him. "Dude, I am not a pillow."

Sam smirked and let Dean ease him back into the bed. He looked up at his brother and the bandage around his head and raised a hand. "Head?"

"Take more than that to crack my melon," Dean chuckled and bumped Sam's hand away from the bandage. "Soon as I'm sure you're not gonna…" Dean had to stop and take a breath and put his faltering smile back on. "…not pull another oxygen-free moment like in the ambulance, I'll bust us outta here."

Sam smiled and nodded. "M'good. Go now," he croaked and frowned at his voice and then coughed.

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed a cup of water with a straw from the table, holding it so Sam could sip at it. "Soon as you can tell me that without sounding like Death's pack-a-day smokin' grandma, I'll believe you." He watched Sam's breathing slowly even out into sleep, patted his brother's chest lightly, and got up. Dean went over to his own bed and rolled on to it, letting his aching head sink into the pillow and groaned happily, relieved for the second time in two days to have his little brother alive, in one piece, and sleeping in the next bed over, even if it was in a hospital. "No more close calls, Sammy," He said softly and let himself drift off at last.

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_The End._


End file.
